


A Pack of Wolves Walk into a Bar

by MaeJacrezz007



Series: Superpoised [2]
Category: Leverage, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Eliot's past, Episode: s02e01 The Beantown Bailout Job, Past Violence, Second Chances, Walk Into A Bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 12:24:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12299211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaeJacrezz007/pseuds/MaeJacrezz007
Summary: After a hard case in New York, Nate makes the call for some well deserved down time. All he wants is to get drunk in a bar where nobody knows him, but apparently that's too much to ask of the world.





	A Pack of Wolves Walk into a Bar

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta read, any recognizable characters don't belong to me, and I can't really figure out when this should be set. Around season 3ish. The title is a reference to the little girl who calls the Leverage team wolves basically, and I couldn't resist.

'There are wolves in the world. But sometimes they're the good guys, I guess.' -Zoe (Beantown Bailout Job)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were in New York for a Job. Capital J and all, it had been that bad. Nate was considering moving from Boston, hoping the west coast wouldn't be so gang filled and mafia controlled. Blood or not, Nate was really getting tired of the Irish mob. Hence why he suggested the team stay in New York for a few extra days. Relax, go be tourists, let Parker plan imaginary heists, Sophie shop, and visit a bar that wasn't ran by some mafia family or by someone who knew who he was. Honestly, was that too much to ask?

So after a lot of suggestions from strangers and a lot of walking away from the trendy and loud places without so much as stepping foot inside, Nate allows Parker to drag them all to a hole in the wall spot that a good friend of hers apparently recommended (when Parker got 'good friends' is a mystery, and worries Nate more than he cared to show). It's a lot like McRory's, with darts in the back, mix-matched tables, a pool table tucked into the back corner, and even the TV playing the staticy sports. Admirably, it's darker than McRory's, not as welcoming, but that's exactly what Nate needs. And a drink. The younger trio and Sophie were already settled by the time Nate finished his observations, and after a final once-over of the bar and its other patrons, Nate picked a stool at a lonely corner of the bar to get comfortable on.

A tumbler was set in front of him before the sigh in his mouth could fully leave. Instinctively he wrapped a hand around it, and once the amber liquid settled raised it to his lips. An appreciative hum left him before he could stop himself.

"Figured you'd like it," a voice commented, warm and amused and thickly accented Irish. It made Nate stop, and glass still half raised to his lips he dragged his eyes up to the speaker. He was a man maybe Hardison's age, but a mirror image of himself with dark unruly hair and clear blue eyes. Intense blue eyes that were watching Nate closely. The man had the sleeves of his button rolled neatly to his elbows, arms crossed over his chest in a very Eliot-esque threatening way. "Nathan Ford walkin' into my bar can mean a few things. Namely trouble. Curious as ta what yer business here is."

Nate set his drink down, turning the heavy glass slowly. "I'm not my father, and I'm not part of any family."

"Not what I asked," the bartender said easily, mouth twisting into a shark smile that was all threat. "You can't play stupid with me you got yer entire crew with you, Mr. Ford. 'M not family either, couldn't care if you were, but I do care that yer all Leverage and that you brought him inta my place." The last part was spat out, not any louder than the rest of the man's retort but with venom dripping off the words and accompanied by a quick jerk of the man's head behind Nate.

It took effort to turn, Nate's back and ass complaining after getting into the perfect drinking position. But if someone had followed them in and spooked the bar keep-- Nate stopped, facing the man again and raising a brow questionably. "You mean Eliot? He's not going to cause trouble." Not a complete lie, since Eliot probably wouldn't start anything in a foreign city without a really good reason. At least that's what Nate told himself and tried to believe. "Look," he continued, meeting the man's eyes and hoping he wouldn't kick them out or call the cops. "If you know anything about us you should know Eliot isn't who he used to be."

The man didn't move, and Nate took the chance to catalog the lean muscles of the barman's arms, the scattering of scars and the faintest glimpse of ink at his elbows. While he may have looked like Nate in coloring, he was physically more like Eliot. Muscles built from use and not just working out out, eyes carrying the same ramston steel. The way they held themselves was was notably similar, but the bartender stood as if he was halfway between a fight and a dance. If he was a betting man, Nate would put money on the two's paths crossing at least once.

The man moved suddenly, fluid in his domain behind the bar. From somewhere underneath the oak counter he pulled two bottles of what looked like beer, though not anything Nate had seen before. In a move that must have taken years to perfect he got both tops off with one hand and din't spill a drop. A serving girl seemed to appear out of thin air and took one of the bottles before vanishing, an impressive feat considering how few people were there. In front of him, the bartender raised his bottle in a small salute before taking a sip. "Remind yer sniper of that. The being new people thing," the man said, bottle barely away from his lips and eyes locked over Nate's shoulder. Probably on Eliot.

"Didn't know he was a sniper." Nate drained his glass, the liquor burning pleasantly on the way down and he placed it as a very aged whiskey.

"Don't know a lot about him I'd bet. Men like him, well," the man stopped and gave a dry chuckle, finishing his beer in a few swallows and setting the bottle down with a solid tap. His attention finally turned to Nate and he smiled, something soft and sad and not at all the predator from earlier. "Men like us keep pasts in boxes with locks, Mr. Ford." He flashed another smile --different again and eyes gleaming with an unsaid secret-- and rapped his knuckles against the bar top before he went to tend to other costumers.

When Nate looked down, his glass was full.


End file.
